


On Why Dean Winchester Can't Sing

by ColtsAndQuills



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 07:59:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9481952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColtsAndQuills/pseuds/ColtsAndQuills
Summary: Ficlet inspired by Demon!Dean's karaoke sessions in S9.





	

From a very young age Dean decided he never wanted a dog. It had nothing to do with shedding and sharing food and more chores on his plate, but the way his brother howled loudly enough to chase any thought of pets far from his mind.

He held Sammy close, his own small arms already well adept at keeping the squirming bundle safe and secure.

“Dad, he won’t stop.”

Hearing his brother’s voice, Sam picked up the chorus with gusto.

“Milk,” John murmured. He was hunched over a battered desk whose age was hidden by the layers of wrinkled maps and strange drawings that were fanned across its surface.

Dean looked down at the small face, scrunched and coated with the fresh shine of tears. It used to frighten him to see Sam like that; he couldn’t remember his baby brother being in such anguish when their mom had been around. Or perhaps she had just been better at baby stuff.

“He ate already. And I changed him a little while ago. Maybe —”

“Dean!” His father’s voice rose above the clamor. To Dean, it sounded less like his name than the echo of a gunshot. Even Sammy grew quiet, his wide eyes moving from his brother’s face to the dark figure seated nearby.

Then the moment was over, and he began his wails louder than ever, one of his tiny fists clenched to Dean’s shirt, damp with tears and the sour-sweet scent of milk.

John felt a familiar, sickly wave of shame fill his chest, but being an emotion he could neither afford nor face, he turned back to his newspaper clippings and scribbles, trying to find his meaning in the stories of others.

“…Dad?”

“Take him in the other room. I’m trying to work.”

When John spoke in that way, quiet and faraway, Dean knew there was no point in trying further. He adjusted Sammy’s weight in his arms, so that his pudgy chin found a place on his shoulder, and padded back to the small room that was home these days.

It was unusual for him to have an actual bedroom to sleep in, so he didn’t mind nights curled up in the single bed with Sammy, or the cracks in the wall, or the threadbare carpet underfoot. A pacifier was resting on a kitchen drawer that had been set upright against the wall to serve as a nightstand. It was the only piece of furniture in the room, but as Dean was able to hide a few comics in its hollow center, he felt it a treasure.

With the door closed behind them, Sam’s voice rattled against the walls as much as they did Dean’s eardrums. He tried bouncing the baby as he paced in small circles, noting, for not the first time, that with each passing week Sam was filling his arms a bit more. That was okay. With each passing week, Dean was getting better at bearing the weight.

“Come on, Sammy… please?”

The baby squealed and fussed, pushing against Dean’s chest with sticky fingers. He looked up at him, eyes made all the more large and beseeching by the pools of tears that filled them. It hurt Dean in a way he wouldn’t have been able to describe if asked, when Sammy looked at him like that, as if Dean were the only one he had in the world. Sometimes, Dean wondered if Sammy thought his big brother looked at him in the same way.

The walls were thin, and from the other room, he could hear his father swear and knock something across the desk.

“Shh… shh…” he pleaded.

Dean miserably cast his eyes around the room, searching for answers in its dark corners. He grabbed at the pacifier, but Sam angrily hid his face every time it came close. With a sigh, he dropped to a seat on the bed, rocking back and forth, one hand rubbing Sammy’s trembling back as the other supported the head of feathery soft curls.

As he often did in times like these, he thought of Mary. He tried to remember the touch of her fingers as she smoothed his hair, or the light of her smiles that chased away every nightmare…  except the one that had cruelly taken her from them all. It was no wonder Dean couldn’t remember Sammy ever crying like this when they had been a family. One laugh, one word, from his mother was enough to make anyone feel warm, safe.

Without any conscious effort, Dean had begun to quietly sing. He couldn’t remember how he knew the song, couldn’t put words to all of the music, but the hushed melody fell easily from his lips. Each note he breathed had a natural clarity to it, that special grace that gives music the ability to reach deep into the hearts of others.

Sammy wasn’t impressed.

The sobs had quieted to a whimper, but a glance down was enough to tell Dean that Sam was merely catching a second wind. Dean kept it up, clinging to the song like a life preserver, but sure enough, Sammy’s pale brows were drawing close, letting his big brother know that with this next cry he meant serious business.

Dean started to panic, and suddenly, one of the sweet notes got away from him, squeaking like a mouse in its escape. Even though Sammy was the only witness, Dean’s cheeks went hot, and he sealed his lips, determined to keep his singing to the shower from here on out.

But then the most remarkable thing happened: Sammy smiled.

“What, you think that’s funny?”

Dean tried a verse of another song, some generic tune from a commercial that was being played endlessly during daytime TV. His voice dipped to as dramatic a low as a boy his age could manage before sailing up to a crescendo that wavered and cracked in the quiet. Sammy giggled in appreciation. Before long, Dean was pulling snippets from his father’s favorite music, line by line discovering new ways to ruin them with an off-key performance that had Sammy laughing and wiggling with glee.

Outside, a door slammed, cutting Dean off mid-note. A moment later and he heard the crunch of gravel and the growl of the Impala as she pulled out of the parking lot.

There was a brief pang of regret, but one look at Sam had Dean deciding it had been worth it. The baby’s face was ruddy with laughter, the streaks of tears that had marked his cheeks nearly dry. He smiled at Dean with such adoration that his brother clasped him a bit closer, holding tight, until his giggles joined Sam’s. Somehow, the room no longer felt so empty.

~~~~

“You’re killing me, here,” said Sam.

He was leaning against the open window of the Impala, pressing his face to the wind. The rush of country highway air somewhat masked his brother’s horrible attempts at carrying a song, but Dean, seeing what he was up to, puffed up his chest and managed to kick it up a notch.

“Oh, man, I give up! Fine! We can eat wherever you want, just stop!”

Dean smiled that lazy-dog grin. “Music to my ears.”

Sam glanced sideways, then turned his face aside to hide the reluctant smile that was tugging at his lips.

“You know, this is why I never let you do karaoke.”

**Author's Note:**

> Also [on tumblr.](http://coltsandquills.tumblr.com/post/100359568501/on-why-dean-winchester-cant-sing)


End file.
